Do you hate metafiction? I hate metafiction. The idea of some doofus pausing every so often to chat me up in the midst of some unfolding drama, and worst to explain said unfolding drama always left me a little queasy. Granting access to all sorts of intimate back-alleys, every terrible decision that lead them right up to the present predicament, when they could've just shut up and showed me, or trusted me to figure it out on my own? Just pretentious, right?
Yeah.
Maybe that's why this is happening to me. Here, let me stop right here and explain to you.
See, the last time I looked in the mirror, about an hour ago after taking a piss, I took for granted that I was still a man. Then I went back to the couch in the basement of my parent's house and sat. Then I picked up the book I was trying to read, but with which I was struggling pathetically albeit heroically.
In all the tossing and turning to find a comfortable position, I felt it. To be precise, I felt them.
I got up and ran back into the bathroom, not because I needed to be sure. I wanted to see it, them, properly, without having to dislocate my neck from sheer disbelief.
Yep. The sensations I'd felt were not unfounded.
I had grown tits.
In case you didn't read the synopsis, I came roaring into life as a male. For all intents and purposes, that's my sex. All my papers said so, my name and body reflected that as well. And up until very recently, I'd been more or less okay with that. I'd played my part well enough that no one ever had to ask me for any sort of clarification.
But all the same, there they were.
Now, it's not like they were crazy double Ds or anything. But they were rounder, fuller. From the side it was obvious they were breasts, they protruded outwards. I turned back and pushed them together, then let go. I ran my finger down the middle slowly, feeling the sternum. Overcoming the initial shock, I realised how sore my entire chest area felt. Like recovery after chest day at the gym.
My nipples, might as well just call them areolas from here on out, were flushed pink and raised in a way I had never experienced them before. And . . . they were sensitive. Not just to my touch, but to the temperature of the room. It felt like I'd gained an added sense that operated via the now-erected antennae on my chest.
As sexy as all this sounds, tufts of chest hair were still there. I felt like a circus freak, well, more than I'd already felt before.
I rolled down my singlet and walked back to the couch in a daze. Then it hit me: It was Sunday.
In a couple of hours I had to attend a Zoom class that was part of the onboarding process for this new job. After almost a year of flitting between freelance gigs and trying to make it on my own as a writer and musician, an opportunity presented itself to me, and I'd taken it. It was in sales. Not my forte, but hey, you know that line about beggars . . .
I knew I was in for some grinding, and my soul shuddered at the time I would have to sacrifice in the hollow pursuit of income, but I was hungry and game to suffer. I wanted to move out of this basement, I needed my own space. And I was ready to do the hard work, whatever that entailed. The stage was set, and I had envisioned myself making the remainder of this year my bitch.
Then I just had to go grow fun bags. I sat down and started thinking of how to cover them up. Nobody could know. Not the class, not the people at work, not my future clients. I wasn't letting go of this gig. I'm going all the way.
If I went out in a tee that was a tight fit, it would be so obvious. Jackets, yes, thank god I've got so many, and sales people wear them all the time right? And anyway the weather's been quite chilly recently, and it's always good to accessorise and—
Wait, fool. Hold up.
Was this even permanent?
Now, dear reader, the time has come for me to let you in on the salacious little secret of how I came to grow these beauties. You see, it was all part of the plan. I'll even tell you why.
On Friday night, I had been sequestered right here in this underground loft, participating in my ritual pastime of listening to my records and trying to read this goddamned Pynchon book. I was halfway through the bottle of the cheapest wine the 7/11 had when I went over to the desk.
Knackered as I might've been, I can recall this bit almost in HD clarity, because it was a pattern finely honed over many Fridays spent alone. The procedure went as follows:
Get high to escape the gaping void. Feel the gaping void even more, ironically. Attempt further escape.
This is where the laptop came in. Or rather, the laptop was the means by which I came and then crawled into bed, all spent, sticky, defeated.
Only this time I didn't follow through on the programming. Some part of me, fuck if knew what or which, recoiled and simply said enough.
Instead, I went to Youtube, and I started building a playlist that consisted of subliminals. You look like Megan Fox, only prettier. Hyperfeminine facial modification [1x max listen]. Ultimate fawnlike angel subs bundle (WARNING: extremely potent!). I didn't give a shit, I added them all, I wasn't even looking at the bevy of gorgeous women adorning the thumbnails.
I fell asleep listening to them, and when I woke up I sure didn't feel any more feminine, what with the line of drool that crusted a trail from mouth up to cheek, somehow. I dismissed the whole foray as some kind of error on my psyche's part. It had wanted to try something new, that was all, and nothing happened. Some of that sissy feminisation kink, eh?
Right.